


i can't fly

by shyv2rxrxr (hexburn)



Series: learning to fly [1]
Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Bird/Human Hybrids, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hybrids, M/M, Pre-Slash, TW: mention of blood, Wing Grooming, Wingfic, Wings, caps helps him out, nemesis is struggling, preening, they're cute together, tw: self-harm (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 10:54:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19990960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexburn/pseuds/shyv2rxrxr
Summary: He has lost, and each feather falls to the ground as he rips them from his wings.This is what he deserves, isn't it?Even if it cripples him.





	i can't fly

**Author's Note:**

> Wingfic!  
> Happy birthday, Nemesis! 🍰
> 
> This is also to celebrate my tenth fic, not including after-hours or works made for friends. Hope you enjoy, and there's other fics to come in the near future!

Tim can’t take it.

The pressure on his shoulders is too much, the weight behind each once-satisfying click of his keyboard is too much, the need to grab his wings and slap them down onto his lap and rend them to pieces is too much, the urge to pluck out the metred numbers of feathers as punishment for what he’s fucked up is too much. There’s an empty supply closet two doors down and to the left and it’s screaming his name.

He’s never been strong enough to resist on his own.

So he runs to it as soon as FNC get off of the stage - it’s not like his teammates have ever noticed him go missing, after all. He runs into the room and throws his back against the wall and pins his wings to his lap, dragging the rubbish bin already half-full of feathers to his side, and, because he’s never been able to control himself when he gets like this, Tim only has to brush a hand against his wings lightly before he’s in a feather-plucking frenzy.

_ One for dying. Another for dying. Another for dying. _

_ Five for no kills. Ten for a negative KDA. Ten more for running from fights like a dog with its tail between its legs. _

_ Twelve for thinking he could do it without Selfmade’s help. Thirteen for not even acknowledging Crownie before the game. _

_ An extra fifteen for not following the pre-game rituals. An extra twenty for brushing away his old teammates when they tried to provide comfort. Thirty for losing the game. _

The feathers fall like snow as Tim pulls each one haphazardly out of his wings, piling up in drifts that Tim shoves into the bin, his mind feverishly hazed with nothing but the pinprick mental pain that must be appeased with physical pain. Yet only halfway through plucking the required fifty feathers for holding his team back, Tim is interrupted by a sudden noise outside the door. A voice resounds through the empty closet and then the door is opening and Tim is frantically trying to ripple his feathers and make his wings disappear from sight, but the process takes too long. 

Understandably, Tim is panicking. 

The door swings wide to reveal the person that Tim wants to see least right now.

He shoves his wings behind his admittedly scrawny body as he scrambles back into a corner, praying that Caps hasn’t seen them - it’s always far too much trouble to explain his condition, even though hybrids like him aren’t uncommon any more. “Occupied,” Tim says, his voice only wavering in the slightest. By now his wings have finished rippling, reaching a peculiar state where the feathers are aligned just right to refract light at an angle that makes the wings fully transparent, so he stands and tries to appear less frightened.

Caps’s eyes just widen.

“Whoa, that’s so cool!” Caps giggles, entering the room and shutting the door behind him, much to Tim’s terror. “You can do it just by, like, twisting your wings?”

_ What the fuck do I do here? _ “What are you talking about?” Tim says defensively, trying to play dumb. Not everyone is okay with hybrids. He’s faced more hate and ostracisation than love and acceptance for the extra limbs on his back.

“Wings!” Caps chirps, rather birdlike, and then he reaches behind himself, grabbing something invisible and pinching a spot mid-air. He seems almost like he’s pantomiming a random action, but then Tim watches as out of nowhere two black-feathered wings materialise on Caps’s back. “You can just ripple them without needing to touch them at all? I have to pull this one spot on my wings in order to do it. I can’t do it otherwise,” Caps rambles, sitting down in front of Tim and completely ignoring his stunned face as he blathers on about his tendons not being strong enough to ripple his feathers and something else about wings in general; Tim doesn’t know, he’s too shocked by the revelation that there are others like him out there.

Sure, he’s known that Mads is a well-hidden dog hybrid and Jus and he have always had a fun time teasing each other about having wings or cat-eyes, but Tim hasn’t met another winged hybrid in what seems like forever. He’s known his mother, his brother, and himself. No one else. And yet here Caps is with fluffy, downy, well-groomed feathers neatly layered down the wings on his back.

His wings are clean, orderly, strong-looking and muscular around his shoulders, clearly indicating that he’s capable of flight and, judging by the healthy sheen of his feathers, he probably oils them well for waterproofing. The black feathers shine like polished ebony in stark contrast to Tim’s dull white wings. Looks like Caps has more for Tim to envy than just talent, skill, good friends, teammates who trust him, and the ability to actually carry the game.

Internally, Tim sighs. Of course Caps has it all.

“Tim?” asks Caps, batting a small gust of wind at Tim that makes the feathers in the rubbish bin dance, “are you in there?” Tim looks up and is greeted by a wide, gummy smile and a giggle.

“Fine,” Tim responds, rippling his wings back into visibility and tugging at a feather absent-mindedly but not pulling it out just yet. Excited about something random, Caps continues to try to talk to him, but all Tim can think about is how the feather tickles his hand in the worst way, itching against his fingers, making the pinprick in his head grow stronger and more intense until it’s a steel rod in his frontal cortex, and he really doesn’t want to give in to the urge in front of Rasmus. 

But before he can stop himself, he tugs just a tiny bit too strongly and rips the feather out of his skin without even a flinch of pain.

Caps seems to be momentarily surprised. His eyes flick to the feather in Tim’s hand and then scan over Tim’s wings. At first, Tim doesn’t know what he’s looking at, but then Caps gasps in sorrow. “Your wings,” he breathes. Tim can easily read the sadness in his eyes and he looks down at his wings curiously.

His own eyes widen. He didn’t think the damage was that bad.

Tim’s once-beautiful, white, sleek wings are patchy and bloodstained, with crooked primary feathers and covert feathers crumpled in knots. His wings are scrawny, just like the rest of him, but there’s so little muscle fleshing them out that he may as well have let them atrophy, much to his horror. He supposes he hasn’t looked at them closely and clearly in quite some time. Spots of bare flesh stick out like red roses in a field of pure daisies. His wings look like they haven’t been properly cleaned in weeks, maybe months, with how many scabs and smears of blood coat the feathers and how tangled they are, quills bunching up in disgusting clumps with cream-coloured spots displaying a lack of proper care for the wings that should be a snowy white.

Tim ripples his wings into invisibility out of shame.

“Do you not have anyone to clean your wings?” Caps asks after a moment of surprised and surprising silence. “Mar- er, Rekkles should know how, at least, and Mads is good at it. Hyli does it the best; you should ask him sometime.” He reaches out for the wings, and, even though he can’t see them, he manages to touch one because Tim hasn’t moved them since they disappeared from sight. Gently, Caps runs his fingers along the appendage, and Tim defeatedly ripples them back into vision.

“I’d rather not tell them just yet,” Tim murmurs quietly. His eyes dejectedly focus on the floor between his legs, though he looks up in surprise when Caps begins to fluff up Tim’s feathers with his fingers and comb through them, dislodging bits of dust and clots of blood. “Oh, y-you don’t have to do that… No one sees my wings anyway, and I don’t fly with them, so.”

Caps simply looks at him and tilts his head. “You wouldn’t be able to fly if you tried, right now. See these feathers?” He runs a finger along Tim’s primaries, most of which are somewhat bent. Some are missing from when Tim had plucked them out, while others are shorter than the rest due to having to regrow. “You need these to fly. They’re too messed up. If you tried to fly, you wouldn’t even be able to get off the ground.” Calmly, with diligence, Caps continues to straighten out Tim’s feathers, bending a few into shape only for them to spring back, and he sighs in frustration while Tim watches, dull-eyed.

“Just leave it. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

With a shock, Caps looks him straight in the eye. “Of course it matters, it’s your health.” Tim just averts his eyes. “You want to keep yourself healthy and whole, right? You have to take care of your wings the same way.”

Tim tries his hardest to avoid the urge to put his head in his hands.

“You… you  _ do _ take care of yourself, right?”

No answer.

Caps sighs and stands up, and Tim winces, rippling his wings and pushing the rubbish bin back into a corner, placing a cardboard lid on it to hide the horrifying carnage of feathers.  _ Just leave quickly, _ he hopes,  _ don’t mention this to anyone. _ But Caps extends a hand down to him.

Tim looks at it confusedly. “Come with me,” Caps says. “I’m cleaning up your wings whether you like it or not, so make this easy. I’d rather not ask Wunder to pick you up and carry you back with me.”

“What? My team will go crazy if I go back with you all, I- I can’t.” 

“You can! Please? If they’re not okay with it just tell them to talk to me instead, I promise you none of them will care enough to say anything to my face. Besides, I need some things I have at the gaming house.” 

Somehow, Caps’s pleading eyes convince him.

“O-okay.”

\---

Despite the protests of some of Caps’s and Tim’s teammates, Tim finds himself waiting in Caps’s room for Caps to come back from gathering his supplies, and, at last, Caps reappears with an armful of small bottles, a fine comb, a small and sharp razor, and a few hand towels. “I’m going to get a tub of warm water,” he says, running off again.

Mihael pokes his head into the room. “Doing alright?” he asks, twitching his black cat ears curiously, looking at the myriad supplies laid out on the bed.

“Yes,” Tim murmurs. “Thanks.”

“How have your wings been?” Mihael hands him a cup of warm tea, tail curling in the air all the while. “Good?”

“Yep,” Tim lies.

“I’m glad.” His ears twitch as Caps presumably gets closer, and Mihael darts off.

“I’m back!” Caps chirps happily, carefully balancing a shallow tub of hot water and setting it down on the floor, motioning for Tim to join him in sitting on the ground while he picks up a washcloth and reaches out for Tim’s wing. He hands Tim the other washcloth and dips his own into the water.

Slowly, Caps rubs the water into Tim’s wings until the feathers are softened, cleaned, and more malleable, watching as Tim does the same and reaching around Tim’s back to get the feathers he can’t reach, wrapping a larger towel around the base of Tim’s wings to prevent his clothes from getting wet. Once his wings are freshly washed, all the loose dust and blood wiped away, though his wings are still streaked in red, Caps gently positions Tim’s wings in his lap and picks up some of the other items to show Tim what to do.

“So this is preen oil,” Caps explains, holding out the bottle, “and you use the stiff brush to apply it. I already warmed it up a bit so it’ll be easier to apply.” Under Caps’s guidance, Tim dips the brush into the bottle of oil and brushes it over his feathers while Caps picks up another brush and begins to work on the other wing, painting over Tim’s feathers with a light hand before going back to bend crooked feathers into form and massaging the oil in, Tim copying his movements. He jolts with a cry of pain as Caps finds a sensitive spot on his wing. “That’s what I was afraid of,” Caps sighs, carefully twisting Tim’s wing to show him a tender lump of flesh. “You have ingrown feathers.”

“Oh.” Probably from plucking his own feathers so often. Tim reaches for the lump with the intention to squeeze the skin until the feathers burst free, but Caps quickly stops him and hands the razor over.

“Cut them free with this. It’s healthier than popping it open.”

Tim feels a rush of dread go through him.

“No, no, no- I- I can’t take that, no, that’s- that’s not a good idea, I can’t do that, I-” 

Bad things happen when Tim has a sharp object in his hands.

Gently, Caps sets the razor to the side and inches closer to where Tim sits, pressed against the wall in fear, and carefully hugs Tim. “It’s okay, I’ll do it for you, then. Do you want to watch? You don’t have to.” He picks up the razor slowly and cuts a small slit in the inflamed flesh as Tim looks away, then coaxes the wet and bloody feather sheaths free and cleans them lightly while Tim winces at the feeling. “Okay, all better!” Caps chirps with a smile. With a deep breath, Tim turns back to face him.

“Sorry.”   
“Don’t be. Did you finish with your wing yet? I still have to do a bit more on this one,” Caps says, resuming his massage and reapplying oil as necessary, always warning Tim when there are more cuts that need to be made to free long-trapped feather sheaths and helping Tim when ingrown feathers appear on the wing that he’s oiling and massaging. Once they’ve done the first go-through, Caps hands Tim a small scraping tool and a comb.

“What are these for?” He doesn’t remember Oskar using anything other than oil, a wiry brush, and his hands to groom his wings.

“Removing excess oil,” responds Caps, pointing to the scraper, “and untangling feathers. You don’t always have to use a comb, but if you haven’t preened in a while then it’s a good idea.” Quickly Caps scoots forwards until he’s seated next to Tim. “Can you oil my other wing?” he asks, stretching it out over Tim’s lap while Tim gently lowers one of his wings onto Caps’s folded legs. They apply a thin layer to Caps’s wings and another thin layer to Tim’s brittle feathers, since the quills have already soaked up the previous coat of oil greedily. Caps smiles at him brightly when their wings are finally ready for more standard, daily grooming. “It’s fun to preen someone else while they’re preening you,” he explains as he picks up the comb and untangles a cluster of Tim’s feathers with dainty touches. “I had to groom my wings this morning because Luka spilled dish soap all over them, but preening is always nice. Plus this should make it easier for you.” He continues to make small talk while Tim straightens out the fluffy black down with the utmost care and delicacy and Caps rakes through Tim’s more bristly quills with a mixture of the comb and his fingers. 

“Your wings are narrower, that’s really cool! They’re high-speed wings, then,” Caps says as he stretches Tim’s wing out to reach the secondary feathers at the bottom and straighten them out. “That means you can fly really fast for a really long time!” He giggles with a small squeak that’s utterly adorable, and Tim can’t help but look at Caps quickly, just to see what his cute face looks like while laughing.

“W-what kind of wings do you have?” Tim stutters through a blush.

“I have, um… Elliptical wings? I think that’s the word. Elliptical. So I can take off quickly but I can’t go very fast for very long. I can do stunts, though! In Denmark I was learning to fly,” Caps begins, and Tim listens intently as Caps begins to endearingly blabber on about aileron rolls and backflips, preening Tim’s wings perfectly until they actually look decently cleaned, a more pure shade of white and with a healthy shine even though the feathers aren’t quite healthy yet, as evidenced by the occasional patch of bare skin and newly growing feather sheaths. Tim’s hands skitter lightly through Caps’s down, not wanting to mess anything up and only lightly straightening any stray feathers out, though he does remove a few feather sheaths and unfurls the new feathers inside. Caps’s wings are remarkably soft and airy to the touch. Tim thinks that he could probably fall asleep on them if he weren’t trying so hard to be calm and stoic. 

When both he and Caps are finished preening the wing in their lap, Caps stands up and moves to Tim’s other side, flopping his other wing into Tim’s lap and gently resting Tim’s wing on his legs, almost immediately getting to work on removing excess oils and reordering Tim’s messy, unkempt feathers. Tim gently runs his fingers through Caps’s feathers, enjoying the feeling more than actually preening, but the ruffled state does go away under his hands.

“Caps… How did you learn to fly?” he asks timidly during a pause in Caps’s rambling, nervous when Caps lays his head sleepily on Tim’s shoulder.

“You can call me Rasmus if you’d like! Can I call you Tim?” Rasmus turns his head up to look at Tim hopefully.  _ He’s brighter than the sun. _ There is no world in which Tim could ever say no to that cuteness. “Great! Thanks. My father taught me to fly when I was young. It’s easier to learn while you’re young, don’t you think?” Rasmus giggles cheerily.

Tim simply hums noncommitally.

“Do you miss flying? Since your wings aren’t flight-capable right now?”

_ And there it is. _

“I never learned how to fly…” Tim murmurs. It’s embarrassing, really; he has these things on his back but never learned to do anything with them, they’re just limp and useless. But maybe… maybe… “Could you… teach me? Or something, I don’t know.”

Rasmus’s eyes widen as Tim shyly looks over, then back down. He probably seems stupid. It comes to his surprise when Rasmus chirps, “Of course I can teach you!” Suddenly, Tim is hopeful. “I mean, it’ll be different than me flying because our wings aren’t the same, but I can definitely help you! A-and, I mean,” Rasmus continues, laughing awkwardly, “you can come over and we can preen each other, too.” They’re both done with each other’s second wing, and Tim is sad to leave, but he stands up and does his best to hide it.

“That would be cool,” Tim says. There’s a slight urge to touch his feathers again. He doesn’t know whether it’s an innocent thing, just to feel the new softness under his fingertips, or more dangerous, like plucking out feather after feather and ruining Rasmus’s work.

“Yeah!” says Rasmus. “Um, would you like me to preen your shoulder feathers as well? Or, or not, if you want to go home already…”

“No!” Tim answers too fast. “You can preen my shoulder feathers. I’d like that.”

Rasmus smiles again, still looking a bit sleepy. “Okay! We can sit on my bed, then.” So they sit on the edge of Rasmus’s bed, Tim turning away and letting Rasmus’s small hands massage a tiny bit more oil into the soft, delicate, only slightly maltreated down at the base of his wings. It feels good, especially when Rasmus rubs the point where his wing meets his back, so Tim ruffles his feathers and sighs appreciatively as the stress seems to just melt out of him. “Your wings are so soft now,” Rasmus murmurs, petting the fluff right where it feels best. Tim’s wings twitch responsively, enjoying the attention.

“T-thanks,” Tim says. He turns around. “Let me preen yours?”

“Of course,” Rasmus says trustingly, turning away from Tim and handing him the bottle of preen oil. “Just put a drop or two on your hands and rub it on my shoulders as you go, that should be enough oil.”

Tim obediently taps his hand with the still-oily brush to put a tiny bit on his hands and slathers it over his palms, then gingerly touches the base of Rasmus’s wings. The down there is somehow even softer and more delightful to the touch than the feathers on his wings, and Tim can’t help but run his fingers through it over and over again as he lightly massages the thick muscle, Rasmus flapping his wings to shift them around for prime preening. Where feathers meet flesh is a soft, supple ring of fuzz-feathered skin, so nice under his fingers. Carefully, Tim rubs the oil in, and watches as Rasmus shudders happily. “Is that okay?” he asks nervously.

“Oh, definitely,” Rasmus practically cooes with delight. Reassured, Tim continues to run his fingers through airy down and loosen the tensed cords of muscle. Once he thinks he’s done, judging by the fresh shine of Rasmus’s gorgeous black wings and the way they’re much more relaxed now, he continues to pet Rasmus for just a little bit longer. It’s not often that he gets to feel such soft wings, let alone spend time with another winged hybrid like himself. 

Sadly, all things must end. “I think I’m done,” Tim says quietly. Rasmus arches his wings, taking great enjoyment in moving his newly-lax wings, and cooes.

“You did great, my wings feel brand-new!” chirps Rasmus, turning back around to face him and cupping Tim’s hands in his own, catching Tim off-guard.

“Good,” Tim replies with a genuine, soft smile. But he clears his throat. “Um, I guess I should go now. Thank you,” he murmurs, shifting to stand up when Rasmus’s grip on his wrists suddenly tightens.

“Can I talk to you about something first?” 

Both of their faces are slightly pale, nervous and prone, Rasmus watching hopefully while Tim feels a rush of cold dread go through him.

“I guess. What do you want to talk about?” Behind him, Tim’s wings twitch nervously, fluttering midair though his face stays practisedly blank.

“You’re plucking your own feathers, aren’t you?”

“...No.”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

Rasmus’s face looks so open and heartbroken that Tim immediately hangs his head in shame.

“You know that’s a form of self-harm, right?”

Shocked, Tim jerks back. Rasmus’s grip on his wrists tightens. “N-no, it’s not, it’s just- just training. If you do something wrong, you get punished for it. That’s how getting better works,” he explains. He knows he’s said something wrong as soon as Rasmus’s expression pinches up sadly, and his wrists feel Rasmus’s thumbs pressing into them lightly, stroking up and down.

“That is  _ not _ how improving works.” Gently, Rasmus turns Tim’s forearms, facing his palms to the sky, and at first Tim doesn’t understand what he’s doing, but Rasmus’s eyes look up and down his arms and then Tim gets it. “You wouldn’t cut yourself, would you?”

“Of course not!”

“Then don’t hurt yourself in other ways!” Rasmus exclaims, looking into his eyes pleadingly. “If you start to feel like you have to, come visit me. Please. You know it’s bad for your wings.”

Tim averts his eyes and shrugs. “It’s not that bad, it’s not like I fly or even use them or anything, better my wings than my arms-”

“IT IS BAD!” Breathing heavily, Rasmus practically shouts, then takes a deep breath and apologises. “It is bad. You don’t need to hurt yourself. You don’t deserve to be hurt, you deserve so much better than that,  _ please _ come to me and let me show you that.”

By now Tim has collapsed in on himself, looking at his hands like they’re the most important thing in the world right now and completely avoiding meeting the gaze of the boy across from him. 

He remains silent.

“Please.”

Rasmus leans his head lightly against Tim’s, pressing cheek to cheek as he continues to plead, hugging Tim tightly when he doesn’t shy away from the touches, and with a sigh, Tim lets go of the tension and pain he’s been holding onto.

“Okay,” he mumbles. Rasmus squeezes him even tighter. 

Gingerly, Tim puts his hands around Rasmus’s back, letting soft feathers brush against his arms. “Thank you,” Rasmus murmurs, “Thank you.”

“Don’t expect too much,” Tim warns, “I can’t fly.”

“You  _ can; _ you just haven’t learned how. Let me teach you.”


End file.
